My daughter, Coco, pinched a small round seed between her fingers. She held it up to me and said with tears in her eyes,

I want to grow this seed and take it to every house we move to."

Then she disappeared for awhile. The trees and bushes begin throwing seeds in December in Costa Rica. Large pods dangle when the leaves bare. Opening a pod reveals a different life, perfect in genetic make-up. All ready to spread its roots again.

About 10 p.m. that evening, my eyes popped open just as I hoped slumber would overtake me. Earlier that day, I had cleaned a little gardening project up that Coco planted a few weeks ago. She’s great at watering her minature plants and trimming her wheat grass crop, but once and awhile I need to gather the fallen dirt she misses. A tiny green pot sat next to the wheat grass seeds. Frustrated at the dirt she brought inside the house, I threw it out and put the plastic pot on the patio.

We have year-round sunshine, I thought. Why does she have to bring this stuff into the house?

The seed! That was the seed! Coco had opened her heart and planted this seed of hope and joy and beauty and poured all her emotions into the dirt and that hardened little seed, which served as a great cathartic tool in healing her soul over the breakup of her family.

And I threw it out "in the name of cleanliness!"

In the morning, I raced to the patio, scooped back in the dirt, and rejoined it with the aging wheat grass crop. A few weeks later, Coco held up the little green pot and said, again with tears,

This seed is never going to grow.

We went to the nursery and found a blooming orange and yellow dahlia.

This is the plant I want to take with us wherever we move.

We planted the dahlia in the backyard, and we’ll watch it grow.

Whenever I think I´ve got it tough, I think of my son. Every attempt he takes at walking, putting one foot in front of another, takes so much effort and thought - I do it without blinking. For most of his life, he struggles to breath. This morning I sat with him before the sun came up because a nasty cough won´t give way and his airways were blocked. I breath without a care in the world.

He teaches me to think; he does it without a thought.

About a month ago, I bought a new agenda/date book for 2008. I have very specific requirements on the size, shape, and layout of the planner. There’s something swimmingly fantastic about those twelve months - untouched, unsoiled, full of promise and hope.

On the 26th, I took out the black book and showed it to my daughter. We planned out our next day: walk; clean guinea pig cages; clean children’s rooms; take down ornaments; clean red sofa (while I still had access to the Shop Vac I borrowed); rearrange my bedroom to accommodate the repositioning of the guinea pig’s home (stayed tuned on that one. It’s a long story.)

After lunch, we took out the agenda to cross off a few things on our list. One thing. I could cross off one thing - the walk. What the heck else have I been doing? Well, the walk included time teaching my daughter how to ride her new scooter; picking up a few groceries; a stop at the bank; a quick cup of coffee. Then I made homemade chicken soup and washed two loads of laundry. That’s why I shy away from TO DO LISTS - I get depressed at how much I didn’t get finished while I was doing the "little" tasks of life, which seem to encompass almost every moment of every day.

But it’s a new year! A new life to put on the dotted line. And I am ready. The last year was a bit rough around the edges.
I have a lot TO DO, just watch.

Raw, unedited, never-seen-before footage of mysterious dancing cow captured on film. You’ve heard the rumors. Told the tales. Wait no more!

Stand back. The dancing cow is real.

Coco and I went to the neighbors to decline a kind dinner invitation - we were just too tired. We left a little present and walked across the driveway for home. The moon was full. Coco saw a star and said:

Look! It’s the Christmas star! It’s the only star out tonight.

She paused.

Or, she said, Maybe it’s that one over there.

Sounded right to me.

When I was growing up, we always ate oyster stew and meat pie during the holidays. My grandma boiled the oysters in a clear pot. I loved to watch them bounce around as they cooked to a rubbery finish. The meat pie….I could devour a whole one by myself. I am sure the pound of butter in the crust was a big draw.

In Costa Rica, tamales are the Christmas tradition. Families gather in a central kitchen and spend the entire day chopping and blending everything. The ingrediants are then plopped into a banana peel and wrapped and tied with string. It´s normal to make at least one hundred of these things. To warm them up, they are boiled.

I do not like tamales. But for the Costa Ricans, it´s a central part of the holiday fare. I do like the family tradition. It´s a kick to watch someone then eat one and rate it. Of course everyone protests they can´t eat too many because of the pound of pork or cow lard used in the making.

I am not sure many would like meat pie unless they grew up with. It´s not much different than tamales or potato pancakes or blessed goat meat: it´s the family togetherness that counts. And maybe there´s something to this boiled thing….

In desperate need of a trim, I took a chance a nearby salon would have an opening. Packed they were, but they squeezed me in. A delightful young man spoke often of how much he would support and help me in whatever I needed as I tipped my head back in the gray wash sink. I moved on to Christian.

Christian is a reincarnation of Edward Scissors Hands without so much make-up. I said one line in how i wanted it cut. We barely spoke again. He opened the drawer in front of my chair and took out a box. Inside was a delicate, sharp, titanium scissors. The tool of his trade. He lifted my hair in sections and began cutting, but I could feel or hear nothing. It was as if the instrument was just an extension of his hand. There wasn’t even any sound.

After cutting he began blow drying it with a big brush. I kept my eyes shut to avoid looking at the paleness of my skin in the current of fluorescent light. Finished. My hair was pouffy. Not beehive pouffy, but for me the get-up-and-go-type girl, more bouncy than I could ever get at home.

You like? he said.

Yes, I said, wishing I had somewhere to go to show off the spring in my hair. My kids sat outside the shop patiently waiting. We walked stopped for ice cream and walked home in the drizzling rain.

Road trips have a certain air of familiarity, no matter the country. On the way home yesterday, I stopped midway through my four hour drive. Since I didn´t want to stop too long in order to avoid the worse of the worse rush hour traffic, I chose a grocery store.

I walked up and down the isles and found so little that was actually nutritious - chips, cookies, candy bars, and icky packages of crackers I have never grown to like over my 10 years in Costa Rica. What I really wanted was a candlelight dinner with a good cut of steak, but beef jerky would have sufficed. The sign on a door said: bolitos de cerdo, which literally translated means little balls of pork. I passed.

I remember a trip with my father about 15 years ago. We drove for two days to reach the East Coast. We stopped a lot, which I found ironic because when I was a child my father would stop only for stop signs and to pick up large equipment. (I hold no resentment here, only a fondness for my father´s endearing quirks.) Anyway…

Those Kwik Stop coffees….fake cappuccinos…now that´s what I wanted. I chose a pineapple/coconut/milk smoothie and a box of gum. I opened the oddly packaged beverage; toasted my father in the heavens he roams; and drove on into the rain.

Addison stood alone today.

Three cheers for the little boy that could.

In Costa Rica, the dry season - or as I call it the windy season - comes some time in December. We’ll get a spattering of rain here and there; however the Trade Winds blow away the rain and bring in the mounds of sunshine, and eventually the really warm weather. My hair goes from curls to a wind-blown frizzy mess; dust replaces mold; and the leaves do fall.

But before they do, we get OUR fall colors.

Trees bloom in a fantastic spattering of palettes. First there will be orange blooms and yellow blooms. Then, we’ll get pink and purple. Flowers blast off too. Poinsettias dot the side of the road in bright red, and this vine, I call “ticky-tack” (not sure if that is correct) trumpets in orange and hangs over fences, brightening up the cement pathways of the city.

Since our seasons are opposite than the North, I guess we should call it our Spring colors. Beauty is beauty no matter the name.